


Raw

by fishpoets



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 08:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21389377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: The one where Danse keeps getting hard-ons in his power armor.
Relationships: Paladin Danse/Male Sole Survivor
Comments: 5
Kudos: 96





	Raw

**Author's Note:**

> god. ok. this was for a prompt on the old (now defunct?) lj fallout kink meme and i started it, no joke, _three and a half years ago._ i've long lost track of the original prompt so, op, if you ever see this... hi? sorry it's so late, lol!  
i think this was originally meant to be humorous but it turned sappy instead, because that's just who i am as a person i guess. anyway. enjoy!

Danse shifts against the wall and heaves a sigh. This is the third time this has happened in as many days. It's getting ridiculous. He _feels_ ridiculous.

He's also pretty damn uncomfortable.

Power armor is meant to fit close and snug, to keep the shock from impacts to a minimum. But not _this_ snug. Not so every step feels like being pressed in a vice.

Across the yard, the source of his grievance is humming along to the radio, blissfully unaware of the torment he's causing. Danse glares at his back. It's not fair of him to be resentful, he knows that – this isn't Emmerich's fault, not really. But Danse isn't in a charitable mood.

He's getting bruises on his dick. It's embarrassing.

The worst part is that Emmerich isn't even _doing_ anything. He's not being provocative, or flirtatious, or – or anything that could justify Danse having such a strong reaction. He's just being himself, the way he's always been. Danse's own mind is the one betraying him.

Yesterday, Emmerich had turned his head _just so_, so the light caught the freckles on his ear and under his jaw. Nothing remarkable. Nothing Danse hasn't seen a hundred times before. Yet, for some reason, the sight of those small, pale brown dots had made all his blood rush south. His mouth watered, his pulse quickened; for precious seconds all he could think about was getting his lips on that soft skin, his teeth, and biting down. Leaving marks of his own. Making Emmerich gasp and sigh.

The trek back to Sanctuary had been... interesting, to say the least.

Before that, it hadn't even been prompted by anything physical. They'd almost been spotted by a patrolling vertibird and forced to hide, and Emmerich had been shaking with tension the entire time, stood between Danse and the door of the derelict house with his gauss rifle in hand. Danse... wasn't getting used to it. He didn't think he'd ever get used to it, having to cower away like an animal from the very people he'd so long considered family. But in that moment his thoughts hadn't been lingering on the deadly whirr of the 'bird overhead. They'd been on the man in front of him.

This man had risked everything – his rank, his missions, his _life_ – to keep Danse safe, and here he was, standing scared but determined, prepared to do it all again, if it came to it.

There are no words Danse knows to describe how honored the realization made him feel, how desperately grateful, but he's pretty certain it shouldn't have made his cock swell and throb in time with the ache in his chest.

And now it's happening again.

Emmerich pokes through the box of scrap at his side, fishes out what appears to be a half-dismantled radio, examines it with a critical eye, and drops it back into the box with a frown. He's at the weapons bench again, working on something for Righteous Authority. Despite the fact he now has bigger, better, more powerful weapons, he keeps this one close like a talisman. Danse has pointed out the redundancy of it – weighed down by a gun he now rarely needs – but in secret, he finds it gratifying to know that Emmerich has found the gun so useful, that it's never left his side since Danse gifted it to him all those months ago. Maybe something more than gratifying. A feeling that curls thick and warm, deep in his chest.

As Danse watches, Emmerich scratches his forehead and sighs. It's a warm day; he's pulled off the top half of his mechanic jumpsuit and tied the sleeves around his waist, leaving him in just his undershirt. The shirt is old and worn thin, hangs too loose from his chest, and is stained liberally with sweat and oil – by any reasonable standards it shouldn't be so enticing. And yet.

Danse looks away, annoyed at himself. This has to stop. He's losing his focus, his attention – it could cost them their lives and he can't have that on his conscience, especially not for such an absurd reason. Besides which, if he chafes any more he's going to rub his skin raw.

He could just get out of his power armor, but that's not a viable long-term solution. And then everyone would _know_. Brotherhood flightsuits may be practical – surprisingly comfortable, too, once you get used to them – but they're not exactly subtle. They don't hide a damn thing.

Though maybe that would get the point across. If Danse climbed out of his armor right now, arousal straining at his seams, and walked across to the bench where Emmerich is working; if he pressed against his back, bent him over the surface and bit at his ear; or if he pushed him into a chair and dropped into his lap, thighs spread wide over Emmerich's hips, and let him know exactly what he was doing to him...

It's a tempting line of thought. But Emmerich is engrossed in his work – he probably wouldn't appreciate the interruption, and Danse is... well. Not a grown man exactly, not by the usual definition, but he's perfectly capable of dealing with his own problems. He can take care of this by himself.

A distraction is what he needs.

He leaves Emmerich alone at the bench and sets off towards the river. Sanctuary is becoming a well defended town, but all the settlers here are civilians. None of them possess anything close to Danse's tactical know-how or his level of perception. An extra tour of the perimeters can't do any harm – except, perhaps, to the soreness between his legs.

Twigs and dead foliage crunch beneath his armored feet as he patrols down the waterside. A cool north breeze fingers his hair. He keeps his eyes open for bugs and mirelurks – they haven't been a problem of late, but you can never be too careful – and yet, despite his attempts to focus on his surroundings, his mind wanders off.

They haven't had sex yet. That's the problem.

Emmerich's been patient with him. Danse had asked him to be, when they first ventured into this relationship, and he's more than grateful to have been granted time without any bitterness or resentment. But it's been weeks since that nervous, thrilling conversation, and honestly, Danse is running out of patience himself. He doesn't need _this_ _much_ space to adjust. He may still be wrestling with his identity – truthfully, he suspects he may not ever stop, as every conclusion he reaches seems only to raise more questions – but this much he knows for certain: he _wants_ Emmerich. Badly. A heavy, insistent, _human_ lust. He knows he's a construct, artificial; he shouldn't be able to feel this way. That doesn't change the fact that he does.

There's simply been no opportunity to initiate anything. The wasteland doesn't lend itself to privacy or safety, and Emmerich's so damn busy, and barely ever _alone_. They've gone no further than fleeting kisses, heated and wet in a shadowed corner, with Emmerich's blunt nails scraping down the front of Danse's jumpsuit, frantic to feel as much as possible before some new task inevitably tears them apart and back to work.

Danse wants so much more than kisses.

He wants to feel Emmerich's hands on his skin. He wants to lay him down somewhere safe and quiet, to have the time to strip him bare, to feel him, smell him, to taste him--

He wants to get out of this damn armor before he ruptures something.

He sighs, irritated, and makes an about-turn. Evidently he's beyond distracting himself. He's going to have to take more... hands-on approach.

Danse had hoped they may find both privacy and time now that they were in safely back in Sanctuary, but the settlement is expanding and still being rebuilt. Emmerich's old home is the only structure without a steady stream of people coming in and out at all hours, but Emmerich seems reluctant to stay there, opting instead to sleep in one of the bunk houses. Danse doesn't want to intrude where he may not be welcome, so he's never stepped foot inside himself. The house stands empty, a strange mausoleum in the middle of the growth and bustle of the town.

Private, but full of ghosts.

So there's nowhere appropriate in Sanctuary. But the Red Rocket station is empty, for now. And it has the luxury of a proper bed. Behind a door that locks.

* * *

The release of pressure as his steps out from his power armor is, for once, a profound relief. He leaves the armor in its frame in the garage – one of the valves in the left knee is coming loose, he'll have to remember to tighten it before they move out – and conducts a swift search to check the building remains all clear. Satisfied he's alone, he grabs a fresh bottle of purified water from the supply box, his short range radio and, after a moment of hesitation, a handgun, and heads to the back room. The door locks with a click behind him.

He hisses as he unzips his flightsuit, the sturdy, stiffened material abrasive on his skin as he peels it from his limbs. It's a relief to be rid of it. Naked, he shakes out and folds up his flightsuit, and sets it aside with his underwear. The tender area between his legs is chafed and sore, but the skin doesn't seem to be broken anywhere, thankfully. Having to contend with the possibility of infection in such a delicate place is not a scenario he wishes to contemplate.

He cracks opens the can of purified water, takes a long, refreshing drink, then lies back on the single bed. The bedsprings squeak under his weight as he settles.

Well, here he is, finally in private – yet he finds he still can't focus. Rather, he's focusing too much on the wrong things. It's still strange to him, being away from people. He's too long accustomed to the constant din of the Prydwyn, being surrounded by Brotherhood knights; to the clank of power armor and the blast of laser rifles, the thrum of the engines the closest thing he's ever known to a nighttime lullaby. When he's with Emmerich the silence never bothers him. When he's alone...

His ears strain to catch the buzz of the electric lights, the whirring of the turrets outside. The sounds ring loud in the quiet. If he closes his eyes he could be back in Listening Post Bravo, after he found out... well. After. After he fled from everything he knew, when he was sitting there in that musty bunker waiting for Arthur to send judge, jury and executioner on his trail. All that's missing is the echoing drip of water.

No, don't think about it. There's no use thinking about back then. It's over; it's done. He wouldn't dishonor Emmerich's sacrifice for him by wishing he could go back and change things; wouldn't give up what he has now to cling to longings and regrets.

All his other senses feel heightened, too. The faint scratch of the old, overwashed sheets grates against his skin. Each inhale brings the scent of dust, metal and grease, the faint musk of Danse's own sweat. The soreness in his muscles, the stark rawness in his crotch. The low-burning embers of arousal thrumming in his veins. He focuses on these instead.

He closes his eyes with a sigh and covers them with his forearm. The other hand he rests on his sternum. He palms his chest, stroking over the tense, knotted muscle, and shivers at the touch – his skin, sensitive after so long zipped up tight, almost prickles with electricity in the wake of his hand.  
  


Emmerich. Emmerich. Think of Emmerich.

Like a recruit in training, flipping through the pages of an old-world pin-up mag, he files through the images in his mind: the bright red-gold of Emmerich's hair in the sunshine after rain; the tension and shift of the muscles in his arm – biceps, triceps, extensors – as he tightens bolts on his power armor; the way he nudges his glasses up his nose when they slip. His freckles, his mismatched ears, his soft, close-lipped smile. Long legs. Narrow waist. The quiet, high-pitched, breathy way he moans when they kiss, disarmingly genuine, like he's enjoying himself so much he can't control their escape.

It's almost amusing how swiftly his agitationdiverts at merely the thought of him. The safety and camaraderie he represents, the belonging, brings Danse the closest to peace he's known in a long, long time.

And with peace comes the wanting.

Danse's heart is starting to beat faster. He slides his hand down his torso, down to his crotch, and holds himself in the cup of his palm. He squeezes gently. The dry drag of his gun-calloused hand aggravates the soreness, but it's outweighed by the sharp jolt of pleasure that rushes through him. The arm over his eye shifts to grab a fistful of his hair. He tips his head back into the lumpy pillow.

He knows without trying that any sort of pumping motion in this state would be a bad idea, at least before he starts to get wet, so he resorts to squeezing himself in a slow rhythm; pressing down, holding, releasing, rolling his balls against his body with curved fingers. His hands are broader than Emmerich's, the fingers more blunt, less graceful. Emmerich's hands are so sure, so nimble; they handle every task he sets himself to with a quiet, understated confidence that is easy to overlook, but impressive to witness once you notice it. Would he handle Danse's body with the same finesse? If he were here, if this were Emmerich's hand holding Danse, what would he do? How would he touch him?

What would he say? Will he fall quiet, or will he speak? Will he want to lead or would he prefer Danse to take the initiative? Or a mix of both? What will his skin feel like beneath Danse's own?

A groan spills from Danse's parted lips. He's filled out beneath his palm, each beat of his pulse sparking an edge of pain. A small bead of clear fluid spills from his tip; he drags his fingers through it, circling it around the head of his cock, and slowly smoothes the slick fluid down the length. He twitches. It stings a bit. Still, it's good. He lets out a shuddering breath.

And then a noise breaks in from outside. He freezes, concentrating. The sound is only faint, but Danse isn't mistaken – it's the scrape of light-footed footfalls on broken, pebble-strewn asphalt.

Slow and careful he sits up, keeping his weight as balanced as he can to prevent the bed from squeaking, and reaches for the handgun he left on the side table.

There's a loud rap of knuckles on the metal outer door, then a voice.

“Danse? You there?”

All the tension drains from Danse at once, his spine bending forward. It's only Emmerich. Of course.

He wipes his damp palm on his stomach and gets up, reaching for his discarded clothes. He pulls his jumpsuit up his legs on autopilot, gingerly tucking in his still half-hard cock – but then a thought catches him. What would Emmerich's face look like, if Danse didn't? If he tugged the suit back off, unlocked the door and walked out, bare as the day he was made?

Propriety stops him. Emmerich might not be alone. Still, he leaves his chest bare, the suit's upper half bunched unzipped around his hips.

As he steps out the back room, Emmerich is just letting himself in from outside. His thin face is tired but he lights up as soon as he sees Danse.

“Hey, there you are,” he says warmly, smiling. “I was just – Oh.” His eyes flick over Danse, lingering on his bare chest. _“Hey. _Am I interrupting something?”

_I was touching myself thinking of you._ Danse can't just tell him that outright – he can feel his cheeks flush at the thought. He leans one shoulder against the wall and crosses his arms. “Nothing in particular.”

Emmerich's smile edges closer to a smirk. “No? Okay. When I heard you'd left Sanctuary I was wondering if something was up, but... seems like you're fine?”

“I'm fine,” Danse assures him. “I just... needed some privacy."

Emmerich's expression softens. "Yeah, I get that. Sanctuary's pretty hectic right now, huh?" He adjusts his glasses. "I'll get out of your hair then, if you want some space, and we can meet back up tomor--"

"No," Danse interrupts.

He steps closer before Emmerich can do more than look surprised. "No, that's not what I meant." He reaches for Emmerich's arm, rides the thrum in his chest when Emmerich tilts his head at him quizzically, exposing those damn freckles under his jaw. Another step closes the space between them completely. "I meant, I _needed_ some _privacy_."

It's not the most subtle innuendo. Danse watches as understanding paints Emmerich's face pink. His eyes widen, his mouth falls slack. "Oh," he says, blinking, and, "huh."

Amused, Danse continues, "If my absence concerned you, I apologize; I did inform the bridge guard where I was going. And I half suspected you'd be up all night working. You finished quicker than I anticipated."

Emmerich stares, mouth gaping open like a beached fish.

Danse blinks. "Emmerich?" he prompts.

"Huh? Uh, yeah, I'm here, I just uh..." He places his free hand on Danse's chest and pushes slightly, like he's testing the muscle. He licks his lips. "Can we go back to the part where you _'needed some privacy_'? 'Cause I'm kinda stuck on that."

Danse feels drunk, dizzy; bolder than he's felt outside battle in a long time, if ever. He flexes under Emmerich's hand, just because he can. "I could always show you," he says, a little in awe of himself.

Emmerich laughs shakily. "Jesus, dude," he breathes, screwing his eyes shut. When he opens them again his pupils are blown wide. "Come here."

Danse is caught in the heavy rising beat of his heart, the thumping spike of adrenaline in his blood. All of it manufactured, but Emmerich is pushing his glasses to the top of his head, he's curling his arms around Danse's neck, he's leaning in, breath hot on Danse's lips, and Danse couldn't give a damn about anything else.

Anything except Emmerich pulling away the moment their lips graze.

"You're sure?" he asks.

Danse shoots him a look.

"Yes," he growls.

Emmerich shivers in his arms. "Fuck, okay, alright. _Fuck_."

* * *

The next few minutes are a blur of wet, hungry kisses and groping hands. Emmerich pinches and squeezes Danse's muscle, his hands roving all over his chest and back and shoulders and sides like he can't decide where he wants to touch most. Danse unbuckles Emmerich's chestplate and unzips his jumpsuit, slipping his hands under the hem of his undershirt like he was itching to do this morning, and pushes up. His palms slide up the leanly-muscled stretch of Emmerich's chest, bunching up the fabric to expose pale, freckled skin. Emmerich exhales a breathy sound and arches into his touch. He lifts his arms without any prompting, allowing Danse to pull the shirt off, then, grinning, he nudges the hands off him and goes straight for Danse's buckles.

When Danse had imagined this scenario before he'd wondered if he might feel self-conscious, being naked in front of Emmerich in a context that was completely different from two fellow soldiers sharing limited bathing facilities. It turns out he doesn't feel apprehensive, or shy, at all. This feels... natural. Easy.

He sits on the edge of the bed when Emmerich pushes him down and lets him pull the flightsuit off his legs.

Emmerich curses quiet but emphatic the moment he gets Danse naked. He sets his palms on Danse's thighs and kneads, brushing his dark leg hair against the grain, then wraps one hand firmly around the base of Danse's cock and pulls up.

It's a picture from Danse's dreams, seeing Emmerich on his knees before him, those long, elegant fingers wrapped around him, but the rough touch hurts. He hisses before he can stop himself.

Startled Emmerich glances up and hastily lets go. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “Sorry – too much?”

“No. Not too much.” Ah, _now_ he feels the embarrassment. “I'm only... um. I'm a little sore.”

“Sore?” Emmerich looks back down at his lap, unconsciously licks his lips. Danse resists the urge to close his legs. “You do look kinda red. You okay?”

Danse clears his throat, debating what to say. “Recently I have found myself... getting distracted. Bodily. By you, if that wasn't clear.”

Emmerich's mouth rounds in a silent 'oh' of understanding, before stretching into a wickedly dirty smirk. “So you've been _seeing to _yourself too much, huh? 'Needing privacy'?”

“No,” Danse refutes, flat. “I've been in my power armor." He leaves Emmerich to work out the inference.

"..Oh." Emmerich winces. "Right. Ouch."

"Yes, _ouch_. And it's your fault, you know."

"Well, I'd say I'm sorry but to be honest, right now I'd only half mean it, so.” Emmerich looks down at Danse's cock again, brushing his thumbs in circles higher up Danse's thighs, closer to the crease of his hips. He clears his throat. “Do you think Cade has... you know. Lube? And condoms, maybe?”

Danse... has no idea. “I have no idea.”

Emmerich hums. “Guess I'll have to ask him next time I'm up there. Jeez, that's gonna be embarrassing. Worth it, though, if he does – god, I miss lube. It's one of the things I miss most about the old world, you know? That and proper, real fucking beef burgers, _god_, with real melted cheese and crispy bacon, slaw and fries on the side... Brahmin steak just isn't the same, I swear.” He gives his head a little shake. “Anyway, Cait was saying... something... about mutfruit? I dunno, I wasn't really listening, it sounded kinda horrifying. Sorry, I'm rambling aren't I? I guess I'm kinda nervous-”

“Emmerich.” Danse puts his hands on his shoulders. “We don't have to do this if you're not ready.”

“Jesus – no, no, I want to. I want this, trust me. Just, it's been a while, you know?” His laugh is a little faltering but his tone is firm when he continues, “Two hundred years is a hell of a dry spell. But I want you.”

He looks up, his soft grey eyes warm and dark. Danse's chest feels oddly tight. He swallows, brushes the back of his hands against Emmerich's cheek. “You have me,” he murmurs.

Emmerich rests the weight of his head into Danse's head for a moment and smiles. “Yeah, I know. This really will go better if we can slick you up, though.” He glances over his shoulder, in the direction of the garage. “There's some gun oil in the workshop,” he says, though he sounds doubtful of his own idea.

Danse is already shaking his head. “I'm not going to use the same stuff I use for my weaponry on my body. Or yours.”

“Yeah, that's probably wise.” Emmerich bites his lip and looks up at him from under his lashes. “I guess I'll just have to use my mouth on you, hm?”

His playful coyness sets Danse's blood on fire. He tugs Emmerich up off his knees to kiss him.

Maneuvering to make room for both of them on the narrow bed is an exercise in perseverance. The springs protest their combined weight; Emmerich chuffs a laugh and grins up at Danse, his eyes sparkling.

Eventually Danse finds himself on his back, propped up against the headboard with Emmerich bracketed between his outspread thighs.

Then Emmerich is lowering his head, enveloping him in wet, silken heat. He makes a weak, high-pitched noise in his throat, his eyelashes fluttering as he sinks down.

Danse's fists clench in the sheet. Emmerich grabs him by the wrists, directs his hands to his hair instead. Danse pets through the fine strands and weaves them between his fingers, holding on tight in attempt to keep hold of his sanity as Emmerich unravels him with each hot suck and caress of his tongue. Emmerich's hands return to Danse's hips. They slip around to his ass, dig into the muscle and pull, encouraging Danse to thrust into his throat.

The bed squeaks with every roll of his hips. Emmerich's cheeks flush, his lips swollen and pink where they're stretched around him. Danse reaches out to pet the side of his face. Emmerich looks up at him, his pupils blown wide, and his eyes narrow in happy curves, like he would smile around his mouthful if he could. Danse's heart clenches.

It doesn't take long for the wave of sensation to build and crest. Emmerich moans around him, pulling up just enough to wetly kiss the tip of his cock, and that does it – the pleasure washes over him, submerging him in blissful white noise.

He blinks past the bluriness of climax to Emmerich pressing kiss after kiss all over his face. He grunts in satisfaction and arcs in a full-body stretch.

Emmerich grins down at him. “Hey there. You good?”

“...Hey. Yeah, good.” A drip of Danse's come is clinging to his cheek. Danse's body is spent, but that doesn't stop arousal from spiking again. He pushes himself up and paws at Emmerich's zipper. “Your turn.”

Emmerich laughs. “Yes sir!”

Between kisses they fumble off the rest of Emmerich's clothes. Danse is stunned by the sleek, pale shape of him; he only has a moment to stare in wonder before Emmerich is tossing his garments carelessly to the floor and climbing on top of him. He holds Danse's face between his hands and kisses him again, sloppy and desperate, sucking on Danse's tongue and stealing the breath from his lungs. His hips hitch, rolling his erection into Danse's stomach.

“Danse,” he gasps, his voice wrecked like he's been shouting drills for the past ten hours. He supports his body with one hand on the wall above Danse's shoulder and shoves the other hand down between their bodies.

Danse makes a plaintive noise before he can hold it back. “May I-” he stutters when Emmerich gazes up at him. “I want- may I-” He moves one of his hands, which had grabbed hold of Emmerich's thighs as soon as they were in reach, and hovers it in the air between them.

“You want to touch me?” Emmerich rasps.

Danse nods. “Yeah. Yes. ...Please.”

“Fuck, honey, of course you can, of course-”

Emmerich leans back to give Danse room. His cock is built like the rest of him, long and more slender than Danse, gently curved and flushed a delicate, pretty pink – but hard and firm and hot under his grip when Danse takes hold of him. Emmerich dips his chin to his chest, staring.

He pants open mouthed as Danse strokes him, commiting the velvet of his skin to memory. He's circumcised – a pre-war relic. Danse rubs his thumb over the line of the scar, where the skin changes tone, fascinated. Emmerich's thighs shake as he whimpers.

Danse licks his lips. He knows how this works, the mechanics of it, and he has on occasion done it to himself, but – but it's a whole different matter with wildly different variables doing it to someone else. “What do you-” he starts, and his throat clicks. He's been breathing in so heavily through his mouth it's gone dry. He tries again. “Show me what to do. What you like.”

Emmerich curses. He tips his head back for a second and squeezes his eyes closed, then takes Danse's hand in his own and folds it around his cock. He pulls their joined hands up his length with a squeeze, then glides down, twisting every few pulls around the head. The pace gets faster and faster until Emmerich's thighs and abdomen are shaking with the effort of holding him upright, quivering from the onslaught of pleasure. His hand goes slack around Danse's. Danse nudges it away and takes over, confident now with the rhythm, with the knowledge and evidence before him that Emmerich is feeling good. That it's Danse's touch making him so.

Emmerich tips forward into another kiss, though this one is hardly more than panting into each other's open mouths. He bites at Danse's lips, his chin, and whines. Bent forward and pressed tight together the angle is difficult, putting strain on Danse's wrist, but he keeps it up, moving with the roll of Emmerich's hips into the funnel of his grip.

The bedsprings squeal, the headboard rattling against the wall. With a last swipe of Danse's thumb over his slit Emmerich stiffens and chokes out a cry. He arches and comes with a shout, shooting sticky-hot over Danse's stomach.

Danse strokes him through it, lighter, slowing, until the last weak spurts dribble over his knuckles and palm. Emmerich collapses, trembling and boneless, on top of him.

* * *

There's just enough room in the bed to lie side by side. When he's able to move again Danse damps a rag with the last of his water and wipes them both down, then pulls the thin blanket up over them both. The last of his afterglow is just beginning to fade, endorphins making way for his soreness to encroach once more, when Emmerich starts softly chuckling.

Danse glances to his side and raises an eyebrow.

"What's so funny?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing. I don't know." Emmerich runs his hands over his face then flops his arms above his head with another breathy laugh. "I've always been giggly after sex, dunno why. I guess some things never change."

Danse is just admiring the pale stretch of his arms, wondering what it would be like to hold them there, when Emmerich turns his head and grins at him, impish.

"But then, you have been getting hard-ons in your power armor. You've got to admit that's pretty funny."

Danse is too sated to feel insulted, but he frowns out of habit. "I'm glad you find my misery amusing."

"Nah, come on. It's nothing like that." Emmerich lowers one of his arms and reaches for Danse's hand, lacing their fingers together under the blanket. "I'm kinda flattered, honestly. I mean, getting _you_ to lose your focus because you're distracted by my ass? That's an achievement. I should be proud."

Danse snorts at him and looks up at the ceiling. The old paint is peeling and blotchy with damp, but the structure is stable, a firm barrier between them and the outside world. A solid roof, four walls and a locked door. Safe. He squeezes Emmerich's fingers lightly between his own. "Not just that," he says. "I was mainly distracted by your face."

Emmerich doesn't say anything, but for a moment his breathing falls out of pattern. He circles his calloused thumb against Danse's hand. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asks quietly. "If things are bothering you, I want to know."

Danse sighs. "We've been busy," he says, "and I didn't want to seem..." He trails off, then shifts his shoulders in a vague shrug. "In any case, it was a minor problem. I had it under control."

"I bet you did." Danse isn't looking, but he can hear the grin curling back through Emmerich's voice. "But next time come tell me, okay? Doesn't matter if I'm busy, or whatever. I'll make time for you."

"You say that now, but you're as much of a workaholic as I am."

"Okay, fair, but let me put it this way-" Emmerich shifts their joined hands and rolls into Danse's side, slotting his right leg between Danse's thighs and his right hand over his heart. "If it means ending up like _this_," he says, smiling down at Danse, "then you can take up as much of my time as you want." Danse snorts and starts to chuckle. Emmerich tugs on his chest hair. "Hey, I mean it."

Danse looks away from the ceiling and back down at him. He brushes aside the spray of ginger hair flopping charming and boyish over his face. Emmerich smiles, sleepy and satisfied. Danse cups the back of his head and pulls him down to kiss the sweet, lovely curve of his lips.

The kiss is long and chaste. They part with a sigh. Emmerich leaves another peck on Danse's cheek and lies down again, tucking his head under Danse's chin. Danse runs his fingers up the length of Emmerich's spine, and the other man melts even further against him.

For a few minutes the whole world falls quiet. Peaceful.

Then Emmerich's hand, stroking over Danse's flank, travels low on Danse's stomach. It's ticklish. He twitches reflexively.

He can feel Emmerich's grin against his neck. Emmerich rubs his thumb back-and-forth over the sensitive spot. “What'd you say?” he murmurs. “You up for round two?”

Danse hums, considering. “...Give me five minutes.”

Emmerich laughs.

* * *

(A week later, Emmerich kills a deathclaw by blasting it point-blank in the face with a shotgun. Danse has an incredibly uncomfortable walk back to base, and spends the rest of the evening adjusting the fit of his armor.)

**Author's Note:**

> btw Emmerich (roughly Em- er- rick) Joseph Dawson is my beautiful son and the light of my life ok bye ～（￣ε￣ ～）


End file.
